


Even in Australia

by De_Nugis



Series: Be Mine verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 12:07:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam has a plan. Dean has rules. There is kissing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even in Australia

**Author's Note:**

> Timestamp to [Be Mine](http://de-nugis.livejournal.com/22324.html) for morganoconner (first half) and elliemurasaki (second half). Takes place immediately following the fic. Sam POV. Title from _Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day_.

Dean has abandonment issues. Sam knows that.

This means he’ll probably react badly to Sam taking off for Australia, changing his name, and becoming a sheep farmer. And Sam feels terrible about that, he really does. But it’s not like Sam has a choice here. This time leaving is one hundred percent the only thing to do. 

Sam is in a position to judge exactly how bad things are, because he’s an expert. He could get his PhD in fucking up. Releasing Lucifer, starting the apocalypse, those are impressive credentials. And, yeah, if he’d been in his high school yearbook he’d probably have been voted boy most likely to ruin everything by revealing sick incest lust to his brother. So he should have seen this coming. He should have been preparing. Reading books. Or at least checking online. There must be websites devoted to sheep husbandry. Now he’s probably going to fuck up sheep farming.

He rests his forehead against the cool, solid steering wheel – he’s been parked at the Quik-E Mart for five hours-- and thinks about sheep. The sheep he’s going to have in Australia. He’ll name them, that way it will be less lonely. Safe unDean names. Nothing Zeppelin related. Daisy or Mabel or, like, Annabeth. 

Though those seem more like cow names. 

He’ll probably give them mange or something. Cow names and mange.

Still, there’s no point in sitting amid the ruins of his life worrying about this stuff. All he can do is take the most practical, least damaging next step. He looks at the bag beside him, does a quick mental inventory. Beer, check. Along with shattering Dean’s psyche and all possibility of their being brothers, Sam’s probably destroyed Dean’s relationship with pie. The least he can do is bring him beer. So he’s got beer. And more ibuprofen and a couple of extra ace bandages and clear, written instructions on how to treat sprains. Dean doesn’t fuck up like Sam does, but there are things he’s an idiot about. How to treat sprains is among them. 

So Sam will go back to the motel room. Dean won’t be asleep, but he’ll pretend. Of course he’ll pretend. The last thing he’ll want to do is look Sam in the eye. Sam will go back to the motel room and drop off the beer and make sure the instructions are where Dean will see them. Maybe he’ll grab the laptop. Dean won’t mind him having it. That way he can figure out how not to give Annabeth mange.

Sam starts the car. Back to the motel room. He’ll get a last look at Dean, before he heads out. Dean will be pretending to be asleep. If Sam takes a quick last look, he’ll never know.

 

The room is dark, as Sam had expected. He shuts the door as quietly as he can and holds the bag steady so the bottles won’t clink. Dean won’t be asleep, but Sam can go along with the pretending. He steps cautiously forward. His foot catches in something soft and the bag swings and the bottles clunk together. Damn it. Then the something soft shifts seismically under him and Sam lurches and goes down.

He has time to identify the brush of flannel over the hard muscle of an arm, a lingering scent of smoke and a faint grunt of pain – Dean, what the hell is Dean doing, trying to wrestle with a sprained knee – before Dean rolls on top of him. Sam could push him off, but that might hurt the knee. He opens his mouth – he’s divided between _what the fuck_ and _sorry_ \-- but before he can get either option out Dean’s lips come down on his and Dean is kissing him. 

It starts out off-kilter, and Dean makes the _tch_ noise he used to make back when he was trying to show Sam how to hold a crossbow or change the oil and Sam’s grip was all wrong. But then Dean’s hands come up on either side of Sam’s face, adjusting the angle, and it fits, it all comes together. Sam opens his mouth wider against Dean’s – because he’s startled, damn it – and Dean’s tongue slips in, tentative, then firm. Sam’s got a hand round the back of Dean’s neck, short hairs prickling against his palm, pulling Dean down, deepening the kiss, and

Fuck.

Dean doesn’t have to do this. Shit, God, Dean doesn’t have to do this. Dean’s gone and gotten it into his head that he has to, that he has to do this for Sam, but he doesn’t. Sam has it worked out, he fucked up, but he has a plan. He’s going to Australia. Sam turns his head, breaking the kiss, and pushes Dean away.

“It’s OK,” he says. “You don’t have to do this. I fucked up, I know I fucked things up. But I have a plan.”

“Yeah?” says Dean, “Well, so’ve I got a plan. This. And we’re doing mine. So shut up.”

Dean’s breath is warm and ticklish at the corner of Sam’s jaw, in the hair behind his ear, tracing back towards his mouth. Sam just has to explain, lucidly, that Dean doesn’t have to do this. Then Dean will understand that Sam’s got a way to fix things and Sam will go to Australia and things won’t get more fucked up. But Dean carries on with the kissing. That’s making it hard to be lucid. 

All the same, Sam persists. He’ll carry on being lucid while Dean carries on kissing and in the end Dean will see that he doesn’t have to. Carry on, that is. Because Sam will be lucid.

“I thought sheep would be best,” Sam says. “I mean, it’s what they do in Australia. Sheep-farming. Or maybe that’s New Zealand. Anyway, sheep are harmless. Hard to fuck up the world with sheep. I was thinking I’d call one of them Annabeth. It sounds kind of pastoral. Pastoral’s safe, right? Can’t fuck things up too much with pastoral.”

Sam may not be speaking very clearly. Not that he’s not being lucid, because he is, it’s just hard to talk with his neck arched back like this, giving Dean access for those little nips, the dry softness of his lips and the hardness of his teeth and the warm smear of his tongue, because, yeah, Dean’s kissing him. But he’ll stop. Dean’s going to have to stop because Sam’s won’t be the one who makes Dean do this. That’s what Sam’s got to be lucid about, why he’s going to Australia. Australia or maybe New Zealand or wherever and he’ll do his best with Annabeth, but meanwhile, yeah. Dean’s lips are moving over Sam’s collarbone and the hollow of his throat and Dean’s fingers are busy at Sam’s shirt, undoing buttons, and Sam’s losing his train of thought.

“Annabeth,” he says lucidly

“Sam,” says Dean.

“Mmmm,” says Sam.

“I’m kissing you,” says Dean. Yeah, Sam got that. “I’m kissing you,” Dean carries on, “And you’re talking about sheep.”

“Annabeth,” says Sam. Hasn’t Dean been listening? “And maybe Mabel. Do those sound like sheep names to you? They’re not too cowy, are they?”

Dean stops kissing him. Good. That’s a good thing. The lucid must be getting through. Dean’s hovering above him, propped on his elbows, not kissing him. Though he’s still slotted between Sam’s legs, settled hot and hard, and, yeah. It’s a bit distracting, like the kissing. Sam edges his legs farther apart so Dean’s pressed against him more tightly. It will take the pressure off Dean’s knee.

“Listen,” says Dean. He’s speaking very slowly and clearly, like he’s trying to be lucid, too. “I’m thinking second, maybe third base, here, Sam. Maybe a home run. Maybe a fucking pennant. But you gotta work with me. No sheep fetish. It’s off-putting.”

Sam considers that. He was thinking very lucidly about sheep – and Australia – but he’s lost that train of thought. Maybe Dean should carry on because it looks like Sam was doing better at lucid back when Dean was kissing him.

“OK,” he says. Because Annabeth’s name is a problem, but it isn’t urgent. The sheep-farming plan may be off, anyway. It’s not so important. And if it was Sam will get back to it once he’s recaptured his train of thought.

Dean goes back to kissing him, threading his hands in Sam’s hair. 

Sam kisses Dean back and thinks through the situation. So this was Dean’s plan. Dean planned this. He was, like, lying in wait.

“Wait,” says Sam.

Dean’s hands and lips go irritably still.

“What now?” he says. “I swear to God, Sammy.”

“How did you even know it was me?”

“It’s our room, Sam. I think it was a warranted assumption.”

“It could have been anything. Anyone. Things break into our motel rooms. Remember Walt and Roy? I could have been Walt. Or Roy. And you’d have kissed him. Them.”

Dean makes a faint disgusted noise, like the time they went to a vegan restaurant by mistake and his burger was a giant portabella mushroom. 

“Well, that’s a thought to kill a man’s sex drive,” he says. “Though I bet Walt’s not a talker. Him or Roy. And they didn’t look like guys who named sheep. There might be advantages.”

Sam hits Dean’s shoulder. Dean grabs his wrist and pins it to the carpet, nuzzling at Sam’s neck.

“I knew it was you,” he says in Sam’s ear. “I knew it was you because I heard the car and I know how she sounds when it’s you driving her. I knew it was you because I could sense you angsting five feet from the door. I knew it was you because when you came in I could smell your stupid conditioner. I knew it was you because you took off and you came back and that’s what you do. I knew it was you because it was you and I know you. And let’s get one thing straight: I’m doing this because I want to. Doing it because I’ve been thinking of it for hours. I’m doing it because it’s you. Not anyone else. Never mind not Walt and fucking Roy. It’s you. You stupid moron.”

Dean’s weight is on Sam, the weight of conviction. Sam reaches up, testing, with his free hand, runs it along the stubble of Dean’s jaw.

“Pleonasm,” he says.

“That another of your sheep? We’re back on your sheep now?”

“It’s a rhetorical term. When you use two words that both mean the same thing. Like _fatal death_. Or _stupid moron_.”

“With how you do stupid moroning, one word’s not enough. OK. Now we’ve got that settled, let’s settle a few more things. Since it seems like if we’re going to make it through an incestuous sex act we’re going to need ground rules. And we’re making it through an incestuous sex act, Sammy, if it kills me. Or if I kill you. Here's rule one: no rhetorical terms.”

 _Fair enough_ , thinks Sam. An incestuous sex act sounds good. “OK,” he says. 

“Rule two,” says Dean. “No talking about people who’ve killed us.”

It’s not like Sam’s really thought about Walt and Roy in years. He can go a bit longer.

“Right,” he says.

“No sheep, named or unnamed.”

“Got it,” says Sam. Dean’s being bossy, big surprise. Dean _would_ be bossy about the incestuous sex acts. That’s Dean. Sam can live with it. Especially since it seems to have everything to do with the way Dean’s teeth are sharp on the shell of his ear and the way the small jag of pain and the heat of Dean’s breath are sending crackling aftershocks straight to Sam’s dick and Dean must be picking up on them, because he’s rocking down in precise counterpoint, and yeah. 

“In fact,” says Dean, “How about rule three: no talking?”

Not that Sam being able to live with Dean being bossy means Dean should get away with stuff.

“That’s rule four,” Sam objects. He’s a little breathless, but still lucid. “Rule three was no sheep.” 

Because incestuous sex acts. They’re doing incestuous sex acts instead of Sam doing sheep farming and there was a chain of reasoning that led to that and it was very lucid.

“The rest of the rules are no arguing with the fucking rules,” says Dean. "And no sheep. Shut up about Annabeth."

His hands are in Sam’s hair again, gentle, carding through it. His lips skim Sam’s eyelids, not even touching, just breathing. Sam shivers and closes his eyes. Somewhere behind Sam’s lids there’s a bright green field. It looks more like New Zealand than Australia. Sam can see every blade of grass but it’s not real. Real is Dean.

“I don’t see what you’ve got against Annabeth,” Sam says. His hand curls over Dean’s back, finding the groove of his spine. “It’s a good name. Pastoral.”

“Shut up,” says Dean. His mouth comes back to hover over Sam’s. Sam pulls him down and kisses him.


End file.
